"And," she continued slowly, "when I wrote you that letter I was—greatly afraid, but I'm—not afraid any longer. And oh, I couldn't leave London yet—I couldn't!"
Now while she spoke, Barnabas saw her clasp and wring her hands together, that eloquent gesture he remembered so well. Therefore he leaned across the table and touched those slender fingers very gently.
"Why not? Tell me your trouble, my sister."
Now Clemency bowed her dark head, and when she spoke her voice was low and troubled: "Because—he is ill—dangerously ill, Milo tells me, and I—I am nearer to him here in London. I can go, sometimes, and look at the house where he lies. So you see, I cannot leave him, yet."
"Then—you love him, Clemency?"
"Yes," she whispered, "yes, oh yes, always—always! That was why I ran away from him. Oh, I love him so much that I grew afraid of my love, and of myself, and of him. Because he is a great gentleman, and I am only—what I am."
"A very good and beautiful woman!" said Barnabas.
"Beauty!" she sighed, "oh, it is only for that he—wanted me, and dear heaven! I love him so much that—if he asked me—I fear—" and she hid her burning face in hands that trembled.
"Clemency!"
The word was hoarse and low, scarcely more than a whisper, but, even so, Clemency started and lifted her head to stare wide-eyed at the figure leaning in the doorway, with one hand outstretched to her appealingly; a tall figure, cloaked from head to foot, with hat drawn low over his brows, his right arm carried in a sling. And as she gazed, Clemency uttered a low, soft cry, and rose to her feet.